


the slide into the habit of hesitation

by decinq



Series: did we cause this wreckage by breathing [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Pining, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, the Farm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-01
Updated: 2014-11-01
Packaged: 2018-02-23 11:54:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2546561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decinq/pseuds/decinq
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It happens like anything else."</p>
            </blockquote>





	the slide into the habit of hesitation

**Author's Note:**

> this was originally inspired when the farm clip was first released, before we knew it belonged to clint. there was a series of tweets between myself, [alex](http://felixandria.tumblr.com), and [jam](http://kirkspocks.tumblr.com) about steve shacking up on a farm with bucky. it was a joke that suddenly turned into this.
> 
>  
> 
> unbeta'd, all faults are my own.

Bucky is silent for the first three days he spends with Steve except for a single conversation in which he answers Steve’s questions of, “Do you want to come with me,” “Would you like to shower,” and, “Is it okay for me to call you Bucky?” with three very quiet _yeses_.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It goes like this:

 

Steve comes home and finds Bucky sitting at his kitchen table. Bucky holds his finger to his lips, points to where Steve knows Maria Hill’s team has had bugs hidden for some time. Steve packs a bag and leaves his phone sitting on the coffee table while the TV plays in the background.

 

They drive for sixteen hours to a safe house that Steve bought in cash a few months after he woke up. It’s stocked with guns and cans of soup and plenty of non-sequential twenty dollar bills. The house doesn’t have a phone line, there’s no internet access. There’s a generator and a septic system and a fireproof safe filled with a fake passport and a photo album from the 1940s.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

One the fourth day, Bucky says, “I think I remember most of it, but it feels like something that happened to somebody else.”

 

Steve nods. “When I look in the mirror, sometimes I think I’m dreaming.”

 

“You were a lot smaller, before.”

 

“Yes,” Steve says.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Steve drives the hour into the nearest town, fills his car with gas. He should look into buying a pick-up truck, but he’s not sure how to go about paying in straight cash unless it’s a private sale. He’ll have to keep an eye open. He buys groceries and a wardrobe’s worth of clothes for Bucky. He buys shoes and the softest towels he can find. Soap that smells like honey, bug spray, a shocking amount of DVDs.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

After ten days in the farm house, Bucky starts to look more relaxed, like he can tell that they’re actually in the middle of nowhere. Not a single car has passed on the dirt road that nears the property since they arrived.

 

Steve chops firewood and makes soup from scratch. He’s growing a beard for the first time in his life.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bucky spends an entire day laying in the tall grass around the back of the house, and Steve, while he itches to join him, watches from his spot on the back porch and loses his spot in his book.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Before the war, whenever Steve was sick enough to warrant a doctor’s visit, the doctor would look to Bucky and say, “His lungs would do far better in the country, fresh air and such.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Steve has a panic attack when he wakes up one morning and can’t find Bucky for ten whole minutes. The property is big, but there’s not that much to it—the house is small, the porch wraps all the way around it; the shed just has firewood and a John Deer and a spare generator. The storm shelter has a bolt lock on it, and Bucky hates it anyway. Bucky finds Steve sitting on the floor, his back pressed against the kitchen cabinets, hyperventilating.

 

“I was on the roof, I’m sorry,” Bucky says, kneeling in front of him. “Come on, you know how it goes: three seconds in, hold it for two seconds, breathe out for four.” After slow moments that seem to drag and stand still simultaneously, Steve’s breathing levels out, his heart rate slows.

 

“Hey buddy,” Bucky says. “Water?”

 

Steve nods, and takes the offered glass when Bucky holds it in his direction. “Sorry,” his says lamely. “Thank you. Sorry.”

 

“It’s not—“

 

“I should have looked for you,” Steve says. “After the train, I mean. I’m sorry.”

 

Bucky is silent for a minute, says, “Steve…”

 

“Sorry,” Steve says again, as tears blur his vision and a lump forms in his throat.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Steve wakes up after sleeping for thirteen hours, and finds Bucky sitting up in bed next to him.

 

“When you’re actually awake,” Bucky says softly, “I need your help cutting my hair.”

 

Steve rolls over so that he can press his nose into Bucky’s hip. “You’re sure?” He asks.

 

“We can’t both look like cavemen, and I know you like that beard.” Steve groans and presses his face into Bucky with more force, and Bucky’s fingers cart softly along the shell of Steve’s ear.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Steve buys them baseball gloves and the heaviest aluminum bat he can find, and they spend a whole day _playing._

 

It seems bizarre to Steve that he can’t remember the last time he had any fun.

 

Once they’re sweaty and tired, Bucky showers and Steve turns on the grill. “Do you want steaks?” Steve yells towards the bathroom.

 

“Corn,” Bucky yells back.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Here is the thing: Steve knows that they deserve to have this last.

 

It can’t, but he’s not sure why.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bucky’s hair is short, but that doesn’t stop him from yanking it, hard, when he thinks Steve can’t see. Bucky often stutters, slides over words as he’s trying to form sentences in his mouth before he’s fully thought them into being. He’ll pick at the skin at the nail bed of his thumb until it’s raw, swollen, layers of too-thin skin that weren’t ready for air yet.

 

It’s not—

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Steve has a nightmare one night, and when Bucky finally manages to wake him, Bucky has his back pressed against the wall furthest from Steve, his chest heaving.

 

Steve spends moments working to get his breathing leveled, eventually says, “Did I hurt you?”

 

“I’m fine,” Bucky answers, flat. Then, “Do you not want to stay here?”  
  
  


“What?” Steve asks.

 

“You were dreaming, you were, you said—”

 

“I didn’t mean it, I didn’t. I want to stay with you.”

 

Bucky shakes his head. “You have a life, friends. Captain America and—”

 

“I don’t give a shit about being Captain America,” he says, and it’s not true but it’s also not a lie. “I just want you to be safe, to be happy.”

 

“You don’t care about being Captain America,” Bucky repeats back to him, and even in the dark, Steve can see Bucky’s left eyebrow lift much higher than his right.

 

“I don’t want it anymore, but I don’t know how to let it go either.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Steve watches the sun come up from the porch. Bucky, as the lowest levels of the horizon start to turn pink, joins him with mugs of coffee.

 

“I’m sorry that I don’t know how to help you,” Steve says, and takes a long sip from his coffee.

 

“We do what we can,” Bucky says as he sits down, his side pressed into Steve’s.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He doesn’t remember everything—memories have slipped away from Steve like anyone else, and there are things he remembers only as implanted ideas from photographs and stories.

 

There are half remembered things that haunt him—

 

 

 

—being pressed into the wall by a USO dancer who fell to her knees faster than Steve ever could have expected, and he can’t remember the actual blowjob but he remembers slamming his eyes shut and seeing only Bucky’s face and he can’t remember the girls name but he can remember her standing, wiping her face and saying, “Thanks, sunshine,” like he’d done her a favor.

 

 

 

—Bucky pressing a damp cloth over Steve’s nose and Bucky brushing the hair from Steve’s eye, and Steve knows they were fifteen but he doesn’t know who hit him or why, just that when Bucky was telling him off, all Steve could concentrate on was Bucky’s breath on his neck.

 

 

 

 

—His mother, nearly dead, saying, “You listen close, Steven. You always stand up.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bucky joins him on his next grocery trip, but this time he drives two hours in the opposite direction from the last time, and finds a Walmart. He remembers Natasha teaching him about ethical company policies and rich CEOs, but he can’t risk going to the same place too many times in a row, and they have a list of things they need.

 

“Maybe we should just grow a garden,” Bucky says, and he’d meant it as a joke, Steve knows, but it’s actually a very sound idea.

 

Steve buys seeds and soil and flowers while Bucky sits in the car. He also gets avocados and mangoes and green grapes. Bucky likes Fiji apples but Steve likes Golden Delicious, so he buys a bag of each.

 

 

 

 

On their way out of the parking lot, they pass a sign for a yard sale, and Bucky says, “What does that mean?”

 

“People put all the junk they don’t want anymore and sell it to anyone willing,” Steve says.

 

“Can we go?” Bucky asks, and there is a light in his eyes that makes him look much younger than Steve feels, so Steve turns and follows the sign.

 

Bucky collects books under his arm, and Steve finds an old Marvin Gaye CD, and a Van Morrison deluxe edition with three separate disks. Steve gets the young woman to sell him all six books and the two albums for six dollars instead of the original ten, and as they’re about to leave Bucky points to the old truck that is sitting in her driveway, for sale sign in the back window.

 

“And how much for that one?” Bucky asks, and Steve ends up counting out two thousand dollars from inside his car and Bucky takes the keys for the faded red pickup.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They never—

 

Before, it would have been easy for one of them to crowd the other, run cold fingers down the side of a still-young cheek. They were kids and it would have been easy for them to press into each other, but being young makes things seem awfully scary, makes it seem like love could never be returned. And Steve was always such a serious boy, and to him, it always felt impossible that Bucky could ever want him back.

 

Of course, things were scarier, now. They are living lives that no one could imagine. For all his wanting and not having, Steve has seen and done a lot worse than loving someone from afar.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Steve plants rows of seeds: peas and carrots, strawberries and cherry tomatoes.  He pushes soil around a row of sunflower seeds, and considers what else he can look into. An apple or a cherry tree, maybe.

 

Bucky brings the hose around after Steve’s covered in dirt but smiling, and they stand side by side while Bucky sprays the large patch of dark soil with freezing water.

 

Steve turns to Bucky to ask about dinner and Bucky turns the hose on him, and Steve screams, and tackles Bucky to the ground.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On the worst nights, Steve will dream of Europe and gun shots, and he will wake silently, Bucky’s breath on the other side of the bed slow and deep in sleep. Steve’s breathing will be labored and heavy, and he will ache to cross the four-inch space between their bodies.

 

He would fight a thousand wars if it meant having sour-breathed kisses in the morning.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Steve is in the kitchen making lemonade while Bucky reads on the patio, _Sweet Thing_ playing over the stereo.

 

“Shit,” Steve mumbles as pulls his hand away from his eye, stinging. Bucky sits and turns toward the small window that looks in over the sink.

 

“What did you do?” He sounds both worried and exasperated, like it’s 1940 and Steve could be stomping through the front door with blood pouring from his nose. “You didn’t cut your finger off, did’ya?”

 

“Lemon juice in my eye,” Steve says, running the tap. Bucky pulls the screen door open and grabs the dishcloth that’s folded on the counter, wets it, and holds it to Steve’s eye.

 

“Jesus!” Steve flinches away from the cloth in Bucky’s hand. “Not that one, I’ve been wiping my hands on it.”

 

“Sorry, sorry,” Bucky says, as he turns to grab a clean cloth from the drawer. He presses it to Steve’s left eye, and the right falls shut softly.  Steve breathes a long, deep breath, and his chest feels like it is made of stone.

 

He can feel Bucky’s eyes on him, a weight he, even at a young age, was never really able to shake. He cracks his eye open, and Bucky looks split open, his expression raw and too honest and Steve—

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 It happens like anything else.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Steve exhales and his eye falls shut again, and Bucky says, “Can I ask you something?”

 

Steve wants to pull away, but his back is to the counter. His side slightly damp where it’s pressed against the edge around the sink, and it’s making his t-shirt stick to his skin. He wants to say, _I don’t know, can you?_ But it comes out, soft, “Yes.”

 

In a true moment of bravery, Bucky says, “We weren’t—We didn’t. I can’t remember anything to say that we did but. We didn’t, did we?”

 

Steve’s breath is uneven. “No.”

 

“There is nothing noble or brave about falling to your death without having spoken your truest truths,” Bucky starts.

 

“I’m sorry I couldn’t reach you,” Steve tries to say, but Bucky says—

 

“It’s not about falling, Jesus, Steve. It’s about chances. Time. I’m sorry I never said.”

 

“You shouldn't blame yourself. The world wasn’t ready, there were already so many thing we weren’t allowed to say.”

 

“Can you open your eyes?” Bucky asks, and he pulls the cloth from Steve’s lemon-juiced eye, and smiles. “There we go. Right as rain.” He gently moves Steve away from the cutting board and finishes slicing the last lemon before dropping it into the pitcher Steve’s set aside with sugar water and ice cubes. “Turn the stereo up so we can hear it from the porch,” he says, and leads the way out the screen door.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Are you sure you’re not getting cabin fever being shacked up here with me?”

 

“Are you?” Steve asks.

 

“No. It’s nice. I didn’t think I’d like the quiet, but I like the sounds the bugs make at night and I like the stars and I’m honestly looking forward to tornado season.”

 

“Okay,” Steve says. “You’ll tell me if you start to hate it here?”

 

“I would but I don’t think I will. It’s easy in a way nothing ever was before.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Steve throws chicken breasts onto the barbecue while Bucky makes a bean salad, and they make a fire and eat sitting on the carpet, their backs pressed into the couch. Steve had found a wine rack in the back of the shed when he’d been digging around for gardening tools, and they drink a nicely aged Malbec as the fire putters to coals. It is a luxury Steve never could have imagined on the other end of their century, and he closes his eyes.

 

“I’ll do the dishes. You gonna shower before bed?”

 

“I feel wrung out, I probably should.”

 

“You go, I’ll deal with the fire.”

 

“Thank you, Buck.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Steve is sitting under the covers on his side of the bed when Bucky comes through, and anxiety rests and pools at the pit of Steve’s stomach. He folds the corner of his book over and places it on his bedside table. He slides down the bed until his head rests on his pillow and turns to face Bucky, who climbs in and settles on his side, his flesh arm folded under his pillow.

 

Steve stares at him for a long moment before he says, “I’ve just loved you for as long as I can remember, and it’s always hurt.”

 

Bucky closes his eyes, and he looks sad, but he leans forward until his nose is lined up against Steve’s, and he takes a deep breath.

 

Before Steve’s nerves get the better of him, he closes the gap and presses his lips to Bucky’s.

 

It’s not a particularly good kiss, Steve’s lips are slightly chapped but the nerves feel fuzzy from the wine. It’s better when Bucky presses back, catches Steve’s bottom lip between his, and it’s like a dam breaking, a bomb exploding, everything starts and stops and Steve thinks he can feel reality shifting to fit this, them, into it again.

 

Steve groans when Bucky licks along Steve’s lips, and he opens his mouth to deepen the kiss.

 

Bucky throws his legs over Steve’s hip and rolls on top of him, his elbows bent with his hands in Steve’s hair. He pulls away from Steve and runs his thumbs over Steve’s eyelids. “Okay?” He asks, and Steve wraps his arms around Bucky’s body to pull him closer, to settle his weight fully onto Steve’s core.

 

When Bucky shifts, Steve can feel his erection against his abdomen, and he groans, “God, yes Buck, it’s good, it’s fine, Jesus—“

 

Bucky kisses him quiet, and Bucky is laughing into Steve’s mouth until he’s not, until he’s moaning whenever Steve pushes himself against Bucky’s crotch. Steve’s hands keep running over the expanse of Bucky’s shoulder until Bucky’s fingers curl into Steve’s hair, and Steve moves his hands to Bucky’s ass, pulls him down against him harder. Steve breaks his mouth away to mumble, “Fuck,” and Bucky takes the opportunity to kiss down Steve’s neck, to run his tongue along the neckline of his shirt.

 

“I’m shaving your beard tomorrow,” he laughs, then adds, “Take this off.” Bucky leans back on his shins to give Steve the space to remove his shirt, and he pulls his own shirt over his head.

 

When he looks back at Steve, he’s pulling his plaid pajama pants down, lifting his hips off the bed. Bucky rolls off Steve’s legs and onto his back and shucks his own pants, and before Steve can even settle, Bucky is pressing the length of their bodies together and—

 

“Buck,” Steve says, his hands going to Bucky’s face, and he kisses Bucky with a desperation he didn’t know he could feel. Bucky turns his head to press his lips to the palm of Steve’s hand, and he kisses the inside of Steve’s wrist, feather light.

 

Steve can’t help but slide his thumb into Bucky’s mouth, and Bucky licks around Steve’s fingertip before he nips at the skin gently and then sucks.

 

Steve cants his hips up, trying to relieve any pressure he can against the strong press of Bucky’s pelvis.

 

It’s new and wonderful until it’s almost too much—it’s too slow, it’s not enough, it could never be enough. Steve bites at Bucky’s shoulder, and Bucky nearly growls, and his metal hand, warm from being pressed between the back of Steve’s neck and the bed, reaches down between their bodies.

 

When his fingers wrap around the base of Steve’s cock, Steve thinks he might die.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Here is something true:

 

Steve is short of breath, and part of that is certainly exertion and part of it is excitement.

 

Part of it is utter panic at how much it all means, how heavy it is.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He was so stupid. It is one thing to be young and afraid that your only friend will not feel the same—will think you’re defective, will leave you—and it is a wholly other issue to be living in what is essentially a vacation home with someone for two months and to have wasted every single moment.

 

Being pressed between Bucky and their bed (and it is theirs, now, without doubt), Steve knows he has been wasteful and a coward. He was so wrong to have been so negative, so worried, so lonely; he was so pathetic to run away from life and to say no, over and over, instead of yes.

 

 

 

 

 

Steve reaches for Bucky’s cock and brings their hands together, lets his fingers circle Bucky’s over his own erection and squeezes.

 

“Shit,” Bucky groans, and he presses his face into the space between Steve’s shoulder and neck.  Their hands find a rhythm and before Steve knows it, he’s whispering Bucky’s name, over and over.

 

“Buck, I—“

 

Bucky’s flesh hand finds Steve’s hand, clenched in the sheets at his side, and when Bucky wraps his fingers around Steve’s, Steve’s orgasm rings through him.

 

Bucky coaxes Steve through it, and when he’s centered, endorphins lulling him into a state, he whispers into Bucky’s neck, “I love you, Bucky,” and Bucky says, “Steve,” and it sounds like a curse but is meant as a prayer. Steve understands anyway. Bucky comes, sticky and hot between them, and collapses onto Steve’s chest.

 

 

“Oh,” Bucky says.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 The truth: This is so important that Steve can barely breathe.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Steve drives to the Walmart and buys probably more lubricant than is appropriate, and he blushes at the register, but he’s placed it so casually on the conveyer belt between oranges and six seasons worth of DVDs to a show about a family who owns a bar. He blushes, and the young cashier smiles softly and says, “Have a nice evening,” like it doesn’t mean anything at all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They eat a late lunch on a blanket in the field near Steve’s slowly growing garden.

 

Steve licks watermelon juice from Bucky’s chin, and they lay in the grass for hours. Bucky undresses Steve slowly, and sits on Steve’s chest while he takes slow bites from a watermelon wedge, the juice dripping all over Steve, and Steve laughs until Bucky licks down his chest, down towards his navel. He bites at the inside of Steve’s thigh before running his tongue along the shaft of Steve’s cock, and Steve’s breath hitches in his chest.

 

“Steve,” Bucky says, and it sounds teasing, so Steve says, “God,” before Bucky’s lips wraps around the head of his dick. Steve makes sure not to roll his hips up, sucks in a breath when Bucky’s tongue swirls before pulling off with a ridiculous sound.

 

Bucky grins, and Steve is so in love with him that he has to close his eyes before the emotion becomes too heady. Bucky’s tongue drags over Steve’s skin, and Steve throws one hand over his eyes while the other rests on Bucky’s cheek. Bucky turns his head to the side and Steve can feel his own erection through Bucky’s skin, and an embarrassing sound rips from somewhere in Steve’s chest.

 

Bucky’s left hand grips Steve’s thigh as he drags his forefinger behind Steve’s balls.

 

“Bucky,” Steve says and Bucky shoves his hand towards Steve’s mouth. Steve reaches down for Bucky’s metal hand and sucks two fingers into his mouth, hard, and Bucky moans around Steve’s cock.

 

Bucky pulls his spit slick fingers from Steve’s mouth and runs the cool, wet metal along the inside of Steve’s thigh before reaching back and running it along the cleft of his ass.

 

Steve’s hands grope around meaninglessly before settling at his sides, fists curling around the blanket beneath them. “Do you like this?” Bucky asks, and it’s husky but it’s genuine.

 

Steve appreciates Bucky’s consideration but says, “Yes, Bucky, please just,” but stops when Bucky presses a metal finger into him, and Steve moans.

 

“Stevie,” Bucky says, before he starts mouthing at the head of Steve’s dick again, licking at the pre-come that’s gathered there. When Bucky pulls his finger all the way out of Steve before pushing two back in, he swallows Steve’s cock until his nose is buried in the curls at the base. Steve grapples for Bucky's head and pulls him off just as Steve comes, his semen landing on Bucky’s chin.

 

“Sorry,” Steve says, heaving breaths as Bucky pulls his fingers out of Steve. “Surprised me.” Steve wipes the palm of his hand across Bucky’s face before reaching for Bucky’s erection and moving his hand over it. “Tell me what you like,” he says, his fingers trailing lightly down Bucky’s shaft.

 

“Oh my god,” Bucky whispers before clearing his throat and saying, “Slow, but, uh—tighter is good.”

 

“Like this?” Steve asks, and Bucky nods helplessly, his forehead resting against Steve’s. “I’m going to make you fuck me like this, so slow that I’ll probably die.” Bucky groans, and his hips thrust up into Steve’s fist, the rhythm still slow but entirely desperate. “I bet you could make me come without even touching me,” Steve says, and Bucky mumbles, “Shit,” before crushing his mouth to Steve’s, his come sputtering over Steve’s fingers and stomach.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Steve is standing at the stereo when Bucky comes up behind him to wrap his arms around Steve’s middle.

 

“Hey,” Steve says without turning around.

 

Bucky noses at Steve’s neck, but doesn’t move otherwise, so Steve continues to flick through the small collection of CDs they’ve gathered since they’ve shacked up in the farmhouse. “Cat Stevens?” Steve asks, and Bucky says, “I like Morrison better, but that sounds okay too.”

 

Steve puts the CD on and skips to the third track, and when he turns to face Bucky, Bucky presses his face into Steve’s neck, his arms tight around Steve’s torso.

 

 

Steve wonders, suddenly, if folk music is the total wrong fit for the mood. Bucky’s shoulders are heaving with every breath, and Steve isn’t sure what’s happening.

 

“Bucky?” He asks, worried.

 

“Yeah?” Bucky offers, soft against the tender skin of Steve’s freshly shave neck.

 

“You okay?”

 

“Yeah, Stevie, sure thing,” he says, but his voice is shaking. “Just,” he pauses, takes a deep breath. “Don’t know how to thank you, don’t know what to do with my hands, most days. I’m really happy and I don’t always know if I deserve it, but I just—“

 

“We deserve it,” Steve says.

 

“Good people don’t always fall in love with good people.”

 

“Buck,” Steve says, his arms tighter around Bucky than is probably comfortable. “You’re it for me.”

 

“Sometimes I think you’re the only good thing in the whole world,” Bucky says. “You’re definitely the only good thing that ever happened to me.”

 

There’s a deep sweeping sound that interrupts Steve’s thoughts and Bucky shifts against him. Bucky crosses the room and peers out past the screen door. “Steve,” he says, and Steve can hear the smile in his voice.

 

“Yes?”

 

He turns and smiles and says, “Ready for your first tornado?”

 

Steve’s eyes go wide and Bucky grabs the keys so they can lock the door to protect the screen. Steve slams the window in the kitchen shut, and he and Bucky head towards the storm shelter.

 

Bucky unlocks the bolt lock and throws the doors open, and gestures for Steve to go first.

 

When they throw the doors closed over them and lock it from the inside, Steve feels his stomach twist in anticipation.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They’ve weathered worse.

**Author's Note:**

> this is my very first published porn, so i hope it's to standard etc.
> 
> this was mostly written to [this album](http://youtu.be/stcNL-vSwkI?t=12m24s), and the title is loosely stolen from Aleister Crowley's _Magick Without Tears_ : "It is a thousand times better to make every kind of mistake than to slide into the habit of hesitation, of uncertainty, of indecision."
> 
> // on [tumblr](http://bittyjack.tumblr.com).


End file.
